


life in love can never last (everyone becomes the past)

by a_simple_space_nerd



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Dreams, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Haunting, Post-Season/Series 04, Spooky, except not lol, make of that what you will, this is an outlier among my works, this was saved on my computer as "spooky sadness", uhh give it a read maybe?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 04:18:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17460509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_simple_space_nerd/pseuds/a_simple_space_nerd
Summary: “Clarke,” Monty sighs, softly, all his frustration leaving him in a gust. “You’re dead. You in my dream, that’s my subconscious thinking about you while I sleep. That’s all.”Clarke’s grin turns sharp. “Who says it’s your dream?”(Grief is a funny thing, and everyone feels it.)





	life in love can never last (everyone becomes the past)

**Author's Note:**

> this is?? a very weird story. I am posting it because it I like it, odd as it is, and I have had it for a long time now. if you like it, please tell me!! 
> 
> ALSO I promise I haven't abandoned "until the sun makes the hill its grave", and there should be an update for that soonish :)

She’s standing in a forest when he first sees her.

“Clarke,” Monty says, and she turns to look at him with a smile he’s been struggling to remember. 

“Monty,” she greets, and he stares. Blue butterflies, as big as Monty’s hands, fly around her, moss glowing gently. Her face hides half in the shadows, illuminated by the moonlight that shines down through the leaves of the trees around her, and the smell of the forest is thick and welcoming. Her hair is held back like it was when they’d first landed on earth, and she wears no jacket, only one low-cut ark shirt and a pair of pants from the skybox. Her face is clear, smooth—cleaner than he remembers. It’s unmistakeably her.

“Clarke,” Monty repeats, and shoves his hands in his pockets, looks up at the night sky. He’s trying to gather his thoughts and he’s trying not to think of what he’s ever done to deserve this, and the moon is bright and full. “You’re dead,” he adds after a moment.

“Hmm.” Clarke turns away from him, reaches an arm out for a softly shining butterfly to perch on. “Yes.”

Monty looks at her out of the corners of his eyes. “Yes?”

Clarke turns back to him, smiles slightly. “I’m dead,” she agrees, and something in her smile is sad and pitying and lonely all at once, “but not here.”

“This is a dream,” Monty sighs after a few minutes in which he gives up pretending not to look at her, watches how she stands, loosely, relaxed, as the blue butterflies cover her arms and cast a soft glow over her features.

“It is?”

“Yes,” Monty snaps, annoyed now, maybe at her but maybe not, “you’re dead.” He clenches his fists to keep them from pulling at his hair, the grief and frustration abruptly overwhelming.

“Not here, though,” Clarke reminds him.

Monty runs a hand over his face, breathes in deeply, and tries to still his beating heart. Distantly, he wonders why he isn’t overjoyed, why he isn’t hugging her, why this feels more like reality than life up in space does. This doesn’t feel like a dream. Clarke doesn’t feel like a dream. (If anything, she’s too real.) “Why not?”

“You tell me,” Clarke answers, and her smile becomes a grin, almost teasing, and it’s unfamiliar to Monty. “You’re the one who claims it’s a dream.”

“Clarke,” Monty sighs, softly, all his frustration leaving him in a gust. “You’re dead. You in my dream, that’s my subconscious thinking about you while I sleep. That’s all.”

Clarke’s grin turns sharp. “Who says it’s _your_ dream?”

* * *

 

Monty wakes with a start, heart unsettlingly calm, sweat on his palms, and the echo of the moon in his eyes.   

* * *

 

 “It’s beautiful.” Raven blinks, looks beside her in surprise. She hadn’t heard anyone arrive.

Clarke’s bright blue eyes look back at her, and _oh_.

Clarke’s smile is soft, kind, and she looks away from Raven and through the window they stand in front of, gazing down at the spinning earth below. “I’m down there,” she says conversationally, pointing, Raven still staring.

“I know,” Raven manages, drinking in the sight of Clarke’s clean face, her wavy hair. “Bellamy—Bellamy said your ashes could be in every continent by now. He thought you’d like that.”

Clarke hums, turns her back on the window and leans against it, reaching out to grab Raven’s hand with both of hers, fingers callused but not rough against Raven’s skin. “Raven,” she says, half a sigh and half a song, “Raven, Raven. Burning yourself up so others can see the light.” One of her hands comes up to trace Raven’s face and Raven’s eyes fill with hot tears as she pulls Clarke into a hug.

Clarke’s hands fall lightly on her back and as even with Raven squeezing her as tightly as she can, Clarke still feels distant and ghostly and _not here_.

“I miss you,” Raven whispers into Clarke’s neck.

Clarke pulls back and trails her fingers down from Raven’s shoulders to her elbows. “Don’t be silly, Raven,” she chides. “You never even liked me.” 

* * *

 

Raven jerks upright with her surprise still singing in her veins and pants into the silence of her empty room. 

* * *

She’s swinging her legs over the edge of a cliff, and Murphy knows immediately that it’s the cliff Charlotte once jumped off, different though it looks in the light of day. He doesn’t say anything, just swallows a sigh and sits down beside her, bending one knee up and resting a hand on top of it.

Clarke faces him, blonde hair blowing around her in the summer wind, and Murphy tires to smile at her.

“John Murphy,” she tuts, clicking her tongue.

Murphy raises his eyebrows, waits for her. Clarke’s eyes are dancing and lively, and not for the first time Murphy wonders if they’d have been friends, if things were different.

“John Murphy,” she repeats, and her legs swing easily, her hands by her sides as she leans forward somewhat, pursing her lips into the wind, lips pulling up as though she’s restraining a smile.

She isn’t saying anything else so Murphy says: “Clarke Griffin.”

Clarke’s grin pulls up to one side when she looks at him. It’s strange that this is what Murphy finds most disconcerting, but—he’d thought Clarke’s smiles were even. He blinks twice. Memory, he knows, is a tricky thing. It’s probably nothing. It’s nothing.

“I wonder, John,” says Clarke, and her legs dangle.

Murphy cocks his head to one side. “What?”

Clarke looks up to the sky, whistles through her teeth. “I wonder, John,” Clarke continues, “did you mourn me?”

This takes him by surprise, and Murphy turns to face her completely.

She hasn’t said anything more and her eyes are more curious than accusing, and. This is weird. “I didn’t mourn you,” Murphy says eventually. Best to be honest, he thinks. The dead can probably tell when someone lies. And besides—she’s dead. What could possibly happen? “I didn’t mourn you, but I regret your death.”

Clarke’s eyes soften and she reaches over and squeezes one of his hands. “Well,” she says. “John Murphy. Would you like something else to regret?” And with this, she pulls back her hand and pushes herself off the edge of the cliff.

* * *

John’s eyes fly open, finding Emori squirming in her sleep against his tense grip, and he lies awake until the lights come on, the picture of Clarke dropping down in front of him replaying in his mind.

* * *

“Bellamy, wake up.”

She’s leaning over him, hair falling over one shoulder, eyes bluer than he remembers them being. “Bellamy.” He closes his eyes.

“Bellamy, you can’t hide from this forever.” His jaw clicks. “You can’t hide from _me_ forever.”

Wearily, Bellamy cracks open his eyes, and is rewarded by Clarke’s beaming smile. He sighs and pushes himself up to a sitting position, rubbing a hand roughly over his face. They’re in the dropship, Clarke kneeling by the side of the cot that Bellamy lies upon.

“Why are we here?” Bellamy’s voice cracks as he squints around the room in confusion. “I’m not sick, Clarke.”

She shushes him, getting off the floor to join him on the cot. “You are,” she insists, and reaches out a hand to press over his heart. “In here.”

Bellamy looks away from her sharply, a pang in his chest while she watches him. “Bellamy.” Her tone is soft but not gentle, curious and accusing and filled with something that makes him think she knows a secret no one else does. “Why are you trying to hide from me?” Her fingers come up to trace his jawline and Bellamy jerks back without meaning to, skin burning.

“You died, Clarke,” he whispers, still looking away, and he can feel her huff of annoyance, disappointment— at what, he doesn’t know.

“Yes,” Clarke agrees. “So why hide? Why don’t you want to see me?”

At this, he finally turns to face her, her head tilted slightly, hair clean and falling open in loose waves, eyes bright and face not worn down by exhaustion or stress. “You died,” Bellamy repeats helplessly, trying to convey everything in those two words. 

Clarke’s smile is almost patronizing. “People die, Bellamy, it’s what they do.”

“Not you, though.” Bellamy scrubs his hands over his face, back hunched. “You weren’t supposed to die.”

“Mm, but I did. And this is how you repay me, Bellamy, by getting drunk enough that you won’t dream, by refusing to sleep, by wearing yourself out so that you pass out… by hiding from me?” Her smile is sharp, pitying. How does she know that? How does she know that he stays busy all day so that when he finally falls into a bed, he is blessed with empty, dreamless rest? “You can’t hide from me, Bellamy.” Clarke’s fingers return up his jawline and trace upwards, carding through his hair and finally curling around the back of his neck.

“I died, Bellamy.” Her head tilts, mocking, and her nails dig into the skin at the back of his neck. “People tend to do that, around you. Why are you surprised?”

* * *

Bellamy gasps back into reality with shaking hands and burning skin, his neck still stinging.

Harper is standing in the middle of the room that often haunts her dreams, and she is not surprised. The bunk beds are empty, the floor unstained, and somehow she knows that the door would be unlocked if she were to try and open it.

“Harper.” Harper turns, feeling as though she’s underwater, and Clarke uses the back of her hand to brush a few strands of hair out of her eyes. “ _Harper_.” Clarke repeats, looking at her strangely, and Harper falters, blinks.

“Clarke,” Harper murmurs, confused, and Clarke nods once, presses the item in her hands onto Harper, Harper’s hands fumbling as she stares down at the gun in her hands.

“What’re you—”

“Shh,” Clarke shushes her with a finger on her lips, and Harper stares. “They’ll hear,” Clarke continues, voice hushed but not yet a whisper, gesturing vaguely around the room. Harper’s eyes run up and down Clarke’s body, taking in the sight of the dead girl, her hair curly and dirtied, clothes leather and unmistakably grounder.

Harper’s brow furrows. “I never saw you like this,” she protests, careful to keep her voice quiet, and Clarke looks back at her, surprised.

“No, you didn’t,” Clarke agrees, sounding weirdly—proud. “I’m jumping off a waterfall, right now.” Harper’s words die in her throat as Clarke winks.

“What’s this for?” Harper looks down at her arms, cradling the large gun and shifting to adjust her hold on it, looking up at Clarke again. “Why are you here?” Harper licks her lips, eyes darting towards the door, hearing the sudden sounds of distant footsteps, many of them, heavy and fast-approaching. “You weren’t here for this, Clarke.”

Clarke steps closer to her and puts a hand on Harper’s cheek. “No,” she agrees, “I wasn’t. I won’t be, from here on.” She pauses to smile, bittersweet and fond. “Be your own hero, Harper. We both know I can’t be, anymore.” She sighs, still smiling, and shrugs helplessly. “Whatever will you do without me?” The doors burst open and Clarke’s huffed laughter rings in her ears.

* * *

Harper jolts awake with a scream, Monty’s arms already around her. She sobs, but it’s dry and no tears wet her face as she stares at him, too afraid to close her eyes. Monty’s face is gaunt, and the shadows under his eyes are dark and deep. “Were you sleeping?” He nods in reply, and Harper swallows the words she wants to say.

* * *

“Nathan,” Clarke whispers, “do these people seem strange to you?” They’re sitting on the bunk in the door, where he knows to be Mount Weather. Nate blinks.

“What?”

Clarke reaches forward blindly and grasps his hand, squeezing. “The mountain men,” she whispers, desperate and intense as she ever was. “They’re not right.”

Nate stares, and swallows, and says: “No, they’re not.”

Clarke leans back from him, looking pensive, brow furrowed, and Nate’s words catch in his throat with a raw panic he’d almost forgotten. ‘We need to get out of here,” he tells her, eyes darting around. “I don’t think the bunkers were bugged yet, and Jasper barely knows Maya, and—”

“Nathan,” Clarke interrupts, “Why did you believe them?”

Nate falters, staring, and she pulls her hand away from him, getting off the bed. Then, his eyes growing wide, he watches as she grips her wrist and pushes her arm under the edge of the bunk bed, red blood spilling out of her arm.

“Clarke!” He grabs her arm franticly, pulling her away roughly, but Clarke yanks her arm away from him, face accusing.

“You knew me, Nathan. Why did you believe them?” And the blood is soaking her shirt, and Clarke opens her mouth and the blood comes pouring out from there too.

* * *

 

Nate wakes up as he always does, lying still and unmoving in his bed, and slowly he moves all his limbs to the middle of his mattress, hands clenched as he stares at the metal edge on the bed that he’d never before noticed.

* * *

 

Octavia is running, running, running—her pulse is loud in her ears and there’s something wet on her hands but she can’t look down, she’s running, running….

“Woah!” Finn’s voice, Finn’s hands, steadying her with a smile.

“Hey.” Octavia doesn’t recognise her voice, all soft and flirty, bold and confident like she wasn’t just racing through the woods, heart pounding— 

Monty steps out from behind her, Jasper half a step before him. “Octavia!” Jasper isn’t wearing his goggles, because they’re perched on Monty’s head. “Octavia, look!” She turns, smiling, and the woods are empty but she scrambles back on her feet and pushes off of Finn’s chest, breath ragged and she’s running, running—

“Octavia! Woah!” Clarke’s hands, this time. Rough and kind and familiar. Clarke’s looking at her with concern, smile playing at her lips. “Where are you going?”

Octavia stares at her, at her blonde hair and blue eyes, and she shakes her head in confusion. “I need to get away,” she tells the older girl, because they are just _girls_ , they are young, “I need to get out.”

“Hm.” Clarke has a hand by her elbow, and she uses it to steer Octavia and lower her down onto a log, hands firm. Her fingers tilt Octavia’s face from side to side, and lift her chin up. Her fingers, suddenly cold, brush under Octavia’s eyes. When Octavia reaches up to touch her cheeks, they come back red. “You can’t keep running, Octavia.”

Clarke leans in close, and her eyes are warm. “You chose this. You pushed us all away, remember?” She sighs, like Aurora used to sigh when she couldn’t decide to be angry or laugh. “You did this. You always know best, right?” Clarke smiles, full of pity, and her hands come up to rest on Octavia’s shoulders.

“You wanted this,” Clarke continues, “and offered no other choice…” She shrugs. “Choose or die.” She pushes both hands against Octavia’s shoulders, and Octavia falls back, off the log and down, down, down, and the world is so dark, and she lands on her back and the sky is gone, and she’s under the floor like she never left. 

* * *

 

Octavia wakes up with one hand already on her sword hilt, lungs burning, and the room around her is full of shadows. She pulls her knees to her chest, eyes wide, and reminds herself that her door is guarded, tries to forget that keeping them out means there’s no one in with her. She tries to believe she’s safe.

* * *

Grief is a funny thing. It leaves Harper trembling, makes Octavia shaky and violent, keeps Miller from forgetting the past no matter how hard he tries. Monty’s smiles are wobbly and rare, and when Raven jokes with Murphy she aims where it’ll hurt. Murphy holds his one person too close to his chest, and Bellamy keeps them all far away.

Grief warps memory and haunts quiet moments, festers from silence and rots within ribcages, and aches when it rains and grows in the summertime.

Grief will fade. Monty will remember how to care about peace, Murphy will learn how to trust, Bellamy will rediscover love. Raven will let her edges grow soft, Harper will grow stronger than ever before, Miller will find something new to be defined by, Octavia will become someone new and untethered.

Grief can fade. The dreams never will. 

**Author's Note:**

> haha, no IDEA what that was. (if raven's scene looked familiar: it is! I use it in "qualities of real perception" and waaaay back in the WIP process, these stories were actually interwined!)
> 
> please review friends! :)


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